З життя
Повертаюся з роботи: двері замкнені зсередини.
Виходжу з роботи й повертаюсь додому. Двері зачинені зсередини.
Стукаю. Відчиняє мені жінка. В моєму фартуху і з моєю кухарною ложкою в руках. Я була в шоці. Більше того, вона запросила мене в дім і повідомила, що мій чоловік скоро прийде і все пояснить.
У квартирі — безлад. Повсюди валізи та торби з одягом. Розібрані меблі вздовж стін. Діти граються з іграшками нашої дитини.
Йду на кухню, питаю, хто вона така і що вони тут роблять. Вона знову про чоловіка каже, що він сам усе пояснить.
Що я мала подумати? Вона не родичка — усіх його родичів я знаю. Не колишня дружина — у нас у обох перший шлюб. Подруга? Знайома? Сказала б, не стала б нагнітати інтригу. Коханка? Звісно ж! Привів її в наш дім, зараз прийде і скаже збирати речі. Логічно? Логічно.
Схопила я жінку і потягла до виходу. Вона кричить, діти плачуть. Витягла в коридор і сказала збиратися. Дала 10 хвилин, щоб їхнього духу в квартирі не було. Вона вперлася. Сказала, що я пожалію і мій чоловік мені цього не пробачить. Ну точно — коханка. Останні сумніви розвіялися.
Вона відмовилася йти. У нас квартира оформлена на мене, хоч і купували в шлюбі. Чоловік — співвласник, але про це ніде не написано. Викликала поліцію. Сказала, що в мою квартиру проникли і крадуть.
Я не збрехала — у неї все ще була моя кухарна ложка в руках. І звідки я знала, навіщо їй це? Може, вона саме за цим і прийшла?
Поліція приїхала разом із чоловіком. Він почав заспокоювати їх. Розповів, що дав ключ від квартири своєї родички, а мене не попередив. Мені погрожували штрафом за хибний виклик.
Щойно поліцейські пішли, ця дама почала жалітися моєму чоловікові на мою нестриманість. Казала, що мене лікувати треба.
— Хто це і що вона тут робить? — ледве стримувалась, щоб не кричати.
— Це — Фаїна. І у неї зараз складний період. Поки що вона поживе в нас, — пояснив чоловік.
— Хто вона, на вашу милість, така? — почала кричати.
— Заспокойся. Вона — дружина Антона, пам’ятаєш, розповідав я тобі — ми з ним служили разом. Він загинув, а його мати вигнала Фаїну з дому. Їй нікуди йти. Не працює — в декреті, пенсію ще не призначили. Квартира не Антона була, а його матері. Тож поки Фая поживе тут. Я повинен Антону. Кохана, це не обговорюється.
Чоловік промовляв, а на обличчі тієї жінки розквітала усмішка. Вона геть не виглядала на безутішну вдову, яку вигнали з дітьми з дому! Я їй не вірила.
— Мишенько, ти рагу хочеш? Я там приготувала… — кокетливо кліпає очима ця вдовиця.
Тут я зірвалася. Забрала свою ложку, пішла на кухню і вилила її рагу в унітаз. Не дам тут всім розпоряджатися. Не дивно, що її з дому вигнали, нахабну таку.
— Ти, хворенька, чим я дітей годуватиму? — загула та Фая.
— Не ори, ти в гостях. Не подивлюся на дітей, вилетиш звідси, як миленька. Зрозуміла?
Чоловік попросив не сваритися. Я відмовилася. Мені ця дама в квартирі не потрібна.
— Це і моя квартира теж, не забувай. Треба буде Фає і дітям реєстрацію зробити. Ти сама поїдеш, чи мені через суд свою частку виділити спершу?
Шок. А вона ще ширше усміхається. Сказала чоловікові, щоб сам сходив у садок за дитиною, зібралася і пішла. До подруги. Для мозкового штурму.
— Може, їй справді потрібна допомога? — припустила Оля, моя найкраща подруга, майже сестра.
— Ні. — покрутила я головою. — Ті, кому допомога потрібна, так себе не ведуть. Вони просять. А ця стоїть, як господиня. Щось тут не чисто. Та й на жінку, яка втратила чоловіка, вона не схожа. От уяви, ти овдовіла…
— Я ще і заміж не виходила! — перебила мене Олішна.
— А ти уяви, що в тебе є чоловік. І ти овдовіла, тебе вигнали з дітьми на вулицю. Але тебе прихистив армійський товариш твого чоловіка. І ти стоїш звабливо усміхаєшся йому, а його жінка для тебе — пусте місце. Та не буває так!
— Може, вона сама по собі така — всім усміхається.
— Ні. Тут є підвох, і я до нього докопаюсь. Тащи ноут! — скомандувала я.
Я переглянула всіх друзів чоловіка і знайшла трьох Антонів. Один — 46 років, він не міг служити з моїм чоловіком. Другий — син наших знайомих. А ось третій — той самий, і в сімейному положенні вказано ім’я Фаїна.
— Ось він. Був онлайн місяць тому, — ткнула я в екран.
— Родичів подивися, за прізвищем.
— Не вчи батька, зараз знайду.
Знайшли якусь Тетяну. Очевидно, сестру того Антона. І я їй написала. Висловила співчуття через Антона і запитала, за що вдова була вигнана.
Дівчина була не онлайн, і ми стали терпіти відповіді за парою чашок чаю.
Тетяна відповіла десь через годину. Вона подумала, що я — шахрайка. Написала, що її брат живий, і попросила її не турбувати. Я знову написала їй, все пояснивши. Відповіддю були смайли зі сміхом і порада вигнати аферистку-Файку до всіх чортів.
Якщо коротко, то Фая — марнотратка. І Антон, їдучи у тривале відрядження, залишив гроші на дружину і дітей своїй матері. А Фая намагалася випросити кошти собі на щось. Їй було відмовлено. Тоді вона здала свою квартиру на 5 місяців до повернення чоловіка, отримала всю суму одразу і стала думати, де ж перебути з дітьми. Так, щоб безкоштовно.
Тоді вона згадала розповіді Антона про мого чоловіка, за яким числився борг. І написала йому, навраши з три короби.
Ми з Олішною попросили у Тетяни номер телефону її брата на відрядження і відразу зібралися до мене додому, виселяти брехливу вдовицю.
Ви б бачили обличчя мого чоловіка, коли я дала йому телефон і він почув голос свого товариша. Живого і здорового.
За Файкою приїхала її свекруха. Ударивши підзатильник невістці, вона забрала і брехуху, і онуків. Поки її чоловік, батько Антона, разом із моїм чоловіком виносили речі.
На чоловіка я дуже образилася. Не порадившись, він привів у наш дім цю хитру бабенку. Загалом, я залишила чоловіка з дитиною, а сама поїхала з Олішною продовжувати банкет.
З Тетяною ми підтримали переписку, навіть домовилися зустрітися. Наприкінці вона написала, що її братові не пощастило з дружиною. І знаєте, я з нею згодна.
Чоловік поклявся, що більше такого не повториться. І ніхто не переступить поріг нашої квартири без мого відома.
На згадку від Фаїни мені залишилися джинси — вона встигла розпакувати якісь речі і забула ці штани в нас. Новесенькі, з бирочкою, якраз мого розміру. Я їх собі залишила, як компенсацію моральної шкоди.
I Will Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You Can Believe Grandma Valerie couldn’t wait for evening to come. Her neighbour Natalie, a single woman approaching fifty, had just confided something so astonishing that Valerie’s head was spinning. To prove her point, Natalie had even invited her round later to show her something remarkable. The story began quite simply. That morning, Natalie had dropped by as she was on her way to the shop: “Is there anything you need, Valerie? I’m popping to the corner shop to pick up bits for a pie and a few other things.” Valerie smiled. “You’ve always been so good and caring, Natalie. I remember you as a little girl. It’s a shame things haven’t worked out for you—but you never seem sad or complain, not like some.” Natalie laughed. “What’s there to complain about? I do have a man I love, it’s just we can’t be together for now. Would you like to hear the reason? I’ve never told anyone else, but I want to tell you. Well, partly because you probably wouldn’t be believed if you repeated it!” She grinned. “Just let me know if you need anything from the shop. I’ll pop in on my way back, and over a cup of tea, I’ll tell you all about my life. Maybe then you’ll be happy for me and stop worrying.” Valerie didn’t really need anything, but asked Natalie to fetch a loaf of bread and some sweets for tea, her curiosity well and truly piqued. Later, as they sat together over tea and cake, Natalie began: “Valerie, you remember that thing that happened to me twenty years ago? I was nearly thirty. Met a bloke—nice enough, so I thought I’d marry him even if I didn’t love him. At least I’d have a family. He moved in and I got pregnant. When the baby came, a little girl, she lived just two days and passed away. I thought I’d go mad with grief. My husband and I split up soon after. A couple of months later, once I’d stopped crying, something happened. It’s hard to explain, Valerie. I’d got everything ready for my daughter—the cot, bedding, toys, the lot. They say it’s bad luck to buy these things early, but I didn’t believe that. Then one night I was woken by the sound of a baby crying. I thought I was imagining it, but the crying came again. I went to the cot—and there she was. My little girl. I picked her up, my heart nearly bursting with happiness. She looked up at me and then drifted peacefully to sleep. And from then on, almost every night, she would come to me. I even bought formula and a bottle, but she hardly ever fed—just smiled, closed her eyes and slept in my arms. Is that even possible?” Valerie leaned forward, utterly enthralled. “I know it sounds mad, but it’s true,” Natalie insisted. “It just went on—we got used to those nightly visits. I knew my little girl was living in another world, with her own mum and dad, but she never forgot me. She would visit, and one night she said to me: ‘I will always be with you, Mum. We are bound by an invisible thread, and nothing can ever break it.’ Sometimes I wonder if it’s a dream, but she even brings me gifts from her world. They don’t last long here though—they fade away like snow in spring.” That evening, Valerie finally visited Natalie’s flat. No one else was home—just the two of them. Suddenly, a gentle light shimmered in the air and a sweet young woman appeared: “Hello, Mummy! I’ve had such a good day, I want to share it with you. And here’s a present for you.” She placed a small bouquet on the table. Turning to see Valerie, she smiled again. “Oh, hello! Mum said you wanted to meet me. I’m Marianne.” After chatting a while, Marianne faded away like morning mist. Valerie sat silent, absolutely stunned. “Well, I never… that really happens!” she whispered. “Your daughter’s a beauty, Natalie, just like you. I’m so happy for you. You really are a lucky woman—maybe luckier than anyone I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Thank you for opening my eyes. The world is so much bigger than I thought; life goes on everywhere. I’m not afraid anymore.” The flowers on the table became paler and then vanished altogether. But Natalie smiled, full of hope. Tomorrow would be a wonderful new day. She was going to meet Arkady, the man she loved and who loved her back—she just knew it. And someday soon, she’d introduce him to the two people she loved most in the world: Marianne and Arkady.
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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. Come on, let’s have tea. Nina, you look younger somehow—come on, tell me!” “I don’t know—my fifth youth!” Nina laughed as she sliced the tart. “Yesterday I rang Simon Mallory by accident… remember your crush in Year Eleven? We got to reminiscing—I’d forgotten half of it. What’s up, Irene? Not another asthma attack?” Irene sat pale and silent, then whispered: “Nina, you didn’t know? Simon passed away a year ago. He lived in another part of town—he moved from that old place ages ago.” “You must be joking! How? Who was I talking to? He remembered everything about our school days. My mood was terrible before talking to him. But after we spoke, I felt life was carrying on—that I still had strength, and joy for living… How could it be?” Nina couldn’t believe Simon was gone. “But I heard his voice. He said such beautiful things: ‘The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, sceptical of her friend’s story. Then she surprised Nina by saying: “Nina, I don’t know how, but it really does sound like it was him. His words, his style. Simon loved you. I think he wanted to support you… from the other side. And it looks like he did. I haven’t seen you so happy and full of energy for ages. One day, someone will piece your tattered heart back together. And you’ll finally remember—what it feels like to be… simply happy.”
No one to even have a chat with. A Reminiscence “Mother, honestly, what are you talking about? How can you...